Fly by Wire

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

Fatima dragged her purchases up the service stairs. The wooden steps creaked, challenged under her weight. Her load was not particularly taxing, yet the long roll of screen was awkward and she struggled, especially at the narrow switchback landings. The elevator would have been far easier, but most of the residents used it. Having arranged her lease only days ago, Fatima had no desire to meet her new neighbors.

She reached the fifth floor completely winded. Fatima let herself into the apartment, dropped her purchases, and leaned on a table to catch her breath. The place wasn't much to look at. Then again, given that she had been raised in a mud-brick shanty with dirt floors, it was a step higher in the world than she might once have imagined. And soon she would go higher yet.

Once she'd caught her breath, she laid everything on the floor. Fatima took the screwdriver in hand and dragged a chair to the closet. Standing on the chair, she began to pull screws from the shelf bracket at the top. The shelf was heavy wood, five feet long and over an inch thick. She struggled mightily, yet even with all the screws removed she could not get the thing loose. Fatima retrieved the utility knife and began carving around the edges of the board, slicing through countless layers of paint that had accumulated over the years to bond the shelf to the walls. Slowly, she wiggled it free.

In the middle of the room, she shoved aside a chair to make a clear area big enough for her next job. On hands and knees, Fatima rolled out the screen and gauged the window, knowing she could err on the large side. She started cutting with the utility knife, and right away realized she should have bought scissors. The knife cut the screen well enough, but it also carved a rut in the wood floor, and became awkward when the rug underneath came into play. She kept going, though, slicing a neat path that nearly split the old rug in two.

Once the screen was shaped, she stood and evaluated the rest. Moving the furniture would be the trickiest part — doing so without getting complaints from whoever lived below She decided that if anyone knocked, she would simply not answer. Once everything was ready, there could be no plausible explanation for the appearance of the room.

Fatima took the hammer and, as an experiment, tapped gently along the window casing. The wood was old and brittle. She realized that if she got too close to the edge the frame would crack and splinter. Fatima went to her little pile and retrieved the can of spray lubricant. Back at the window, she went to work.

"Can you protect me?" Bastien pleaded.

He was looking at Sorensen as he said it, so Davis figured he was referring to the CIA. Davis traded a glance with her, and said, "Protect you against who?"

Bastien rubbed his hands together. "It began on the night I was put in charge. You see, this was the first time I had ever been chosen to oversee an investigation. I was quite pleased with the honor, and so to celebrate I went to dinner in Paris with two of my colleagues from the university. It was nearly midnight when I returned home. Three men were waiting for me."

"They had broken into your house?" Davis asked.

Bastien nodded vigorously. "I told them to leave, to get out. I threatened to call the police. They only ignored me. I did not know what to do."

Davis said, "Do you know who they were?"

"Two were immigrants, North African, I think. Dark skin and hair. One of them was very big, very tall. The other I cannot describe. Perhaps he seemed more European than the others."

Davis traded a glance with Sorensen. She was thinking the same thing.

"And the third man?"

Bastien hesitated mightily. "It was Jaber."

" Our Dr. Jaber?" Davis exclaimed.

Bastien nodded. "I had never met the man before, but knew him by reputation and had seen his picture in a trade magazine. I could not imagine what CargoAirs chief engineer was doing trespassing in my home…" he hesitated mightily, "carrying a suitcase full of cash."

"Cash?" said Sorensen.

"A hundred thousand euros, perhaps more. I don't know. I have not even looked at it."

Davis realized what this implied — that the suitcase was still at Bastien's house. The investigator-in-charge was in some serious trouble. He said, "What did Jaber want?"

"It was very strange. He wanted me to delay the investigation, go through all the procedural movements, but get nothing done for a time. He said CargoAir needed a few days to prepare for certain matters. If I could only delay things briefly, the money would be mine."

Sorensen asked, "You're saying CargoAir needed time to get ready for this investigation?"

"I assumed they had shortcomings, perhaps involving records or questionable data. Jaber said he would let me know when everything was in order. At that time, I would be free to proceed as I wished with the investigation. He made it sound so very—"Bastien paused again and crossed his arms tightly, "simple."

"And you agreed," Davis said flatly.

"No!" Bastien insisted. "I protested. But then the other man, the smaller one, he threatened me."

"How?" Sorensen asked.

"I… I don't know!" an agitated Bastien said. "He was not specific. He only said that if I went to the authorities or failed to heed Jaber's instructions, they would be back." Bastien was crumbling fast. He was pale, his gaze unfocused.

Davis looked at Sorensen. She gave her head a subtle shake. They both knew he was done.

The Frenchman addressed Sorensen with pleading blue eyes. "Can you please help me, mademoiselle? I have now violated their directives. Surely you can give me some kind of protection."

"Yes," she said, "I'll arrange something. Probably the local police. But I'll have to go through proper channels."

If the thought of police involvement bothered Bastien, it didn't show. He actually looked relieved, like Atlas free of his burden. Davis didn't like the vagueness of it all. He kept wondering what Jaber was trying to accomplish. Whatever it was, the money and intimidation proved he was serious.

Davis prompted Sorensen by spinning a finger — let's move. She nodded.

They gave Bastien firm instructions to stay in his office and promised to have the security man downstairs stand at his door until something better was arranged. When they left, Thierry Bastien was catatonic in his chair, staring blankly at the walls.

They rushed down the hallway, Sorensen slightly behind. Halfway to the front of the building, she grabbed Davis by the arm and whipped him around. "Don't you ever do that again, mister!"

Davis stood dumbstruck. "Do what?"

"Blow my cover. If you want to use my job title for theatrical reasons, you tell me first!"

Davis said, "It worked, didn't it?" He turned away. "Come on, we don't have time for—"

"Jammer!" she yelled.

Davis stopped, stared at her impatiently. Then he gave it some thought. "Okay, you're right. I'm sorry."

She met his gaze on equal, hard terms.

"I swear, Anna… never again." It was the first time he had used her real name. It did the trick.

"All right," Sorensen said, seeming satisfied.

They started walking again.

"Other than that," she said, "I thought you handled Bastien pretty well."

"You sound surprised."

"I guess I expected a little more volume, maybe some bad words."

"Bad words? No way. That's Navy stuff. I never worked there."

She asked, "How much of Bastien's story do you buy?"

"Most of it. The part about CargoAir needing extra time is rubbish, though. If an airplane manufacturer makes a design mistake or has lousy recordkeeping, they don't fix it with suitcases full of cash."

"I don't know, Jammer. Remember, CargoAir is flush with oil money from the Middle East, Russia. In those parts of the world that's how business is done." Then she said, "What about the two guys Jaber had with him? Do you think they were the same ones we met last night?"

"Probably. So tell me, can you really get Bastien any kind of protection?"

"I have no idea."

Davis glanced at her and Sorensen shrugged defensively. "What was I supposed to say?" She was nearly running to keep up with his strides. "But why would CargoAir do something like this? What could be the point of bogging down the investigation?"

"CargoAir has orders booked for hundreds of airplanes. If they suspect there's a glitch in the flight control software, they might want time to try and isolate the problem."

"Or," she suggested, "maybe they already know exactly what the problem is. Maybe they want a chance to erase it, put a fix in the code before anyone finds out."

"Good point. But for us, either case results in the same endgame."

"Which is?"

"Just what I suggested yesterday — ground the entire fleet."

"Oh, sure. And how do we do that?"

"We get details, specifics. And I know just who has them."

He led to the receptionist's desk at the front of the building. A new woman was parked there, a dour young creature with questioning brown eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses.

"Dr. Jaber!" Davis barked as he closed in.

"Pardon?" she said.

"Dr. Jaber — is he in the building?"

"I believe he left, perhaps an hour ago."

Davis turned to Sorensen. "He's not staying at the hotel, is he?"

She shrugged. "I've never seen him there."

Davis turned back to the receptionist. "Where does he stay?"

"I cannot give out such information, sir. Even to a member of—"

Davis moved. She had said she couldn't give information — not that she didn't have it. He circled around to the business side of her desk and opened the biggest file drawer.

"Sir! You cannot do this!"

Davis did it anyway. He found the personnel files, everyone with investigation credentials arranged in nice alphabetical order. He flicked through the tabs and found jaber, opened it and began scanning for a local address.

"Laurent!" the receptionist cried.

The lone security guard got up from his chair and started over. "Monsieur!"

Ignoring the guard, Davis found the address and memorized it. He saw a note that suggested Jaber was staying with his aunt. He put the file back, between T and U, and said, "Thanks," adding a smile for the receptionist.

The guard closed in.

He was roughly Sorensen's height. Roughly Sorensen's weight. Which meant that he tipped the scales at about Jammer Davis, divided by two. And chances were, unlike Sorensen, he wasn't an Olympic-class practitioner of any martial art. Still, he had the confidence a guy gets from an embroidered security company badge and striped epaulets on his shoulders. He also had a thick belt full of accessories. A flashlight, a radio, and a couple of pouches that probably held keys and flex cuffs and maybe some pepper spray. Most conspicuously, there was no sidearm.

The guy came to within an arm's length of Davis and put a finger in his chest. "Sir, if you persist I will have your credentials!"

Davis looked at the guy's finger. Then he leaned forward slowly on the balls of his feet. It wasn't good posture for a fight. Wasn't good in terms of center of gravity or room to maneuver. But if they had happened to be outside, particularly any time near the middle of a day, Davis' profile would have blocked out the sun.

Total eclipse.

He delivered his words in his most persuasive manner — slow and low. "And if you persist, I will put your nuts in that drawer and slam it closed so hard you'll need a crowbar to get them out."

The guard took a step back. Then another. He pulled his weapon of choice from his belt — the radio. Laurent was calling for backup. Davis didn't feel like waiting. He turned to Sorensen and said, "Let's go."

The receptionist actually snorted. The guard stood tall, but not as tall as Davis, who strode past with Sorensen in tow. On the way out, he called over his shoulder, "You both need to go up and report to the investigator-in-charge. He needs you immediately!"

Outside, Sorensen said, "You really know how to make an impression on people."

Davis said nothing.

"Jammer, are you sure this is wise? We can't just go to Jaber and accuse him of shaking down the investigation. We have to get the BEA involved now, the French authorities."

"No time."

"But Jammer —"

"Car!"

They found the Fiat and climbed in. She looked at him plaintively. "Why not—"

"Go!"

She put the key in the ignition. "You really have that nickname because you talk too much?"

"Yes."